


Everyone's Heart Doesn't Beat the Same

by eternaleponine



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [11]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Deleted Scene, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deleted scene that takes place before the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/531381/chapters/942536">Ghosts That We Knew</a>, showing Clint's first days with his foster family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone's Heart Doesn't Beat the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shazrolane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane/gifts).



A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Clint only just managed not to grab it and twist it, do what his brother had taught him to do if he was ever attacked (by anyone other than his father, then it was usually just better to take it). He looked up, his jaw set, trying not to give away how hard his heart was pounding.

The woman – one of the women, he didn't know her name or what she did and he didn't care – was too close, up in his face and grinning like she enjoyed the fact that she'd scared the shit out of him. She started saying something, and Clint just shook his head. He couldn't hear. Had she fucking forgotten that he couldn't hear? Because he sure as hell hadn't.

She sighed, and maybe rolled her eyes, and tapped her ear. 

"You know you're supposed to keep them on," she reminded him once he'd fished his brand new hearing aids out of his pocket and stuffed them back into his ears. "You're never going to get used to them if they don't."

_Maybe I don't want to get used to them,_ Clint thought, but of course he didn't say it. He tried to say as little as possible around here; it was safer. 

"Anyway, we have great news for you," she said, back to smiling at him so big it looked like her face should crack right in half. "We've found you a foster family."

"You found my family?" Clint asked, even though he was pretty sure that wasn't what he'd heard at all. He just had to check, make sure. He'd been told that they were gone, told his parents were dead and his brother... no one knew anything about his brother, so it could be he was dead and it could be that he was okay and still with the circus, or who knew what. Clint just hoped Barney was looking for him, because he was kept under lock and key here and he hadn't had much of a chance to go looking for himself.

He realized he hadn't been listening; it was a lot easier to tune things out when it all just muddled together into a wash of background noise half the time. But the look on the woman's face – fake sympathy, or maybe pity, but definitely fake either way, that didn't quite conceal the fact that she clearly thought that whatever they had decided for him was better than finding his real family anyway – told him everything he needed to know.

"They've been taking in foster kids for years," she told him. "Usually they take younger boys – not too young, not babies or toddlers usually, but school age kids – but we told them about your case and they agreed to take you on. We think it's a good placement; they have plenty of experience with children with special needs."

One, he wasn't a child. He was sixteen, almost seventeen, and he'd been taking care of himself (sort of, mostly) since his age was in the single digits. Yes, he had parents and a brother and the rest of the circus, but you didn't stay a kid for long there no matter how well people look out for you. Two, he didn't have special fucking needs.

Sure, his hearing was shot to shit, and it might never come back, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. Especially now that the great state of... where the fuck was he?... the great state of wherever he had seen fit to finance a pair of hearing aids. He could get along just fine like that, with a little bit of effort.

Once they'd let him out of the hospital they'd moved him here, an all-boy group home for kids who were either waiting to be placed out in a real home with a real family, or ones who'd gotten kicked out of said real home and family so many times they – whoever _they_ were – had just given up and decided to let them stay for the long haul.

Clint had assumed he would be one of those kids. It was only a year and a half, roughly, and he would be gone long before then. It was only because he was new and they kept an even closer watch on him than they did with other boys that he hadn't gotten away already. Might as well accept the three meals and a day and a bed for a little while until he got things figured out. 

But no, apparently not. Apparently his ears qualified him as "special needs" and that meant they didn't want him here. Too much trouble or whatever. So he was being shipped off to play house with strangers.

"Go back your things and we'll go."

"Now?"

"Now."

That didn't settle Clint's heart any, or his stomach. Packing didn't take long; his entire life fit into a backpack. Everything else was gone with the circus, thrown away or pawned, probably, or just disappeared into the trailers of others since he wasn't there to defend it. 

"Is there anyone you wanted to say goodbye to?" she asked.

"No," Clint said. He hadn't made any friends. He hadn't seen the point.

"Let's go then."

He climbed into the car, into the passenger's seat even though he was pretty sure that the woman – social worker, maybe, case worker, concierge, valet, what did he know? – didn't want him to. She would have preferred that he sit in the back and stay out of her space, but he didn't give her a choice, and if she said anything, he dldn't hear it. (Legitimately didn't hear it, not just pretended he didn't and blamed it on his ears. They were good for that, at least. It had gotten him off the hook more than a few times in his short stay here.

She drove maybe twenty minutes, half an hour, before pulling into a driveway on a street that looked like something you'd see on TV. Sitcom suburb, or maybe a drama... did it matter? It looked like a set, not a real place, but what did he know?

Maybe they'd have a dog. He'd always wanted a dog, but his father had always said no in that voice that old you if you disobeyed you were really, really going to regret it, and so was the dog. 

She (he probably should know her name but he was never going to see her again anyway) went up to the door and rang the bell. He stood on the edge of the porch, ready to make a break for it if it seemed necessary.

The door opened, and someone Clint couldn't see looked out. Then it opened wider, and they were motioned in. There was a long awkward moment while Clint and the social worker (probably) waged a silent war over who was going to in first. Finally Clint conceded, because he was pretty sure that she wasn't going to budge. She was one of the smart ones, then. Maybe she'd heard about the hospital incident.

"Clinton, this is Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. This is Clinton Barton. We appreciate you taking him in."

Clint looked around, but there was no evidence of a dog anywhere in the living room, and that was where its food and water dish would be, probably, right? So he was the only stray they'd taken in, apparently.

Except a clattering so loud Clint thought he would feel it bouncing off the walls told him that that wasn't the case. Seemingly out of nowhere (but actually just from upstairs) three boys came barging into the room. 

"Mom! Tell Devon to give me my game back!" one of them – the one that appeared to be the youngest - whined. 

"I don't have it, damn it!" the oldest (or at least tallest) snapped.

"Devon, _language_!" Mrs. Sullivan said. "Do you have his game?"

"I just said I didn't," he said, his voice rising. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Then tell Kevin to give it back!" the youngest boy said. "One of them stole it!"

"Kevin, do you have Connor's game?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

"No! He just can't find it so he says we took it but we didn't. We don't even play that stupid baby game anyway," the middle one said, crossing his arms. "Can I go _outside_ now?"

Mrs. Sullivan sighed. "Yes, go outside. Devon, Connor, go with him," she said.

"I don't want—"

"What about my _game_?!" 

"I'll help you look for it later," Mr. Sullivan said. "Go on. You too, Devon. A little fresh air and sunlight won't kill you."

With no small amount of grumbling, whining, and shoving (once the Sullivans' backs were turned) they did as they were told. Mrs. Sullivan smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry about that. They were supposed to play quietly upstairs for a little while."

"They all live here?" Clint asked.

"Yes. Devon is the oldest, Kevin is in the middle, and Connor is the youngest, but he's been with us the longest."

"So they're not yours?"

"They're all foster children, if that's what you're asking," Mrs. Sullivan said, a hint of acid creeping into her voice. "We've had Connor since he was a toddler – he's eight now – and Kevin since he was six. He's almost ten. Devon has been with us for a little less than a year. He just turned thirteen."

"Great," Clint said. He didn't say that there was no way this was going to work, that he wasn't about to live with three bratty kids always fighting over everything. Truth was, he needed someplace like this to stay. He would have more freedom than at the group home, and with that came the possibility to figuring out where the circus was now and how to get back to it. 

"We've never had anyone come to us a teenager," Mr. Sullivan said, "so this is new for all of us." He smiled, and maybe he even meant it, but Clint didn't try to smile back. What was the point? Just because he needed to stay didn't mean he needed to pretend to be happy about it.

"Let me show you your room," Mrs. Sullivan said. "You can settle in while we deal with all the boring grown-up stuff."

Clint gritted his teeth and nodded. He followed her up the stairs, and Mr. Sullivan trailed them, followed by the social worker. "This is our room here," Mrs. Sullivan said, gesturing to a door at one end of the hall. "This here is the bathroom, and this room is Connor's. Devon and Kevin share this room here, and this one," she pushed open the door at the opposite end of the hall as the master bedroom, "will be yours."

Clint stepped in, not sure what to expect. It wasn't big, but it wasn't tiny. It was certainly bigger than any room he'd had before, and he didn't have to share it with anyone. The furniture was a bit battered with years of use, but the blue paint on the walls looked like it had been done pretty recently. There was a dresser and a nightstand, a closet... All kinds of space to keep things he didn't have.

"Go ahead and unpack," Mrs. Sullivan said, like she hadn't noticed that he didn't have anything _to_ unpack. "Come down when you're ready."

He didn't come down for a long time. He took out his hearing aids and shut his door. He reached to lock it and discovered that there was no lock. Great. He took his desk chair and wedged it under the knob to keep anyone from coming in without his say-so.

He must have stayed up there too long, though, because eventually there was a knocking at the door – or more a pounding, hard enough that the improvised chair-lock jerked with the force of it. He put his hearing aids back in and moved the chair, and the door flew open. Luckily he wasn't close enough to get hit in the face.

He wondered what kind of paperwork they would have to fill out for that. It seemed like there would have to be some kind of incident report or something.

Mr. Sullivan stood in the doorway, frowning. "We've been calling you for quite a while," he said. "Didn't you hear?"

"Sorry," Clint said. "I fell asleep, and it's not comfortable to sleep with my hearing aids in." It was a lie, but he didn't care. Well, the part about it being uncomfortable to sleep with his hearing aids in wasn't a lie. The part about falling asleep was. 

"Why couldn't I open the door?"

"It got stuck?" 

Mr. Sullivan's eyebrows went up, and Clint was pretty sure he knew that he was lying, but he'd decided not to call him on it. Big of him. Maybe he figured it was better not to confront him on things on the very first day. Probably he thought they had this down to a science, an art form, by now.

Whatever. He wasn't going to stay long anyway.

"Dinner is ready," Mr. Sullivan said. "After dinner, we'll go over the house rules. Tomorrow we'll take you shopping for some new clothes since Ms. Vogle said you don't have much, and also go to the school to have you do some tests so they know where to place you."

Clint snorted. "I ain't going to school," he said.

"Yes, you are," Mr. Sullivan said. "It's not optional."

"I'm old enough to drop out," Clint pointed out. At least he was pretty sure he was. It was sixteen most everywhere, right? 

"While you live here, you'll go to school," Mr. Sullivan said. "But we'll go over all of that after dinner," he repeated. "Come on down and have something to eat."

Since lying and saying he wasn't hungry wouldn't have hurt anyone but him, he decided against it. Instead he went down and joined the Sullivans and the three younger boys for hamburgers and hot dogs hot off the grill, green salad and pasta salad and baked beans and pretty much anything else you could think of that would go into a picnic. He wondered if they'd done it special for his arrival, or if they made a big deal about meals every day. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.

After dinner, the boys were given the choice of going back outside or having some video game time. Only Kevin went back out, chasing a soccer ball back and forth and around the yard with seemingly endless energy. It was exhausting just watching him.

"There's a few rules while you stay here," Mrs. Sullivan said, sliding a sheet of paper over to him, and then reading off of it like he couldn't do it himself. He didn't pay too much attention; he would do what he wanted and if he got in trouble, so be it. They weren't allowed to hit him; that much he knew, and so whatever they decided to dish out was better than dealing with his dad. 

No drinking, smoking, or doing drugs. Curfew is 8:00 pm, 10:00 pm on weekends, but they would try to be flexible for special events... as if he had anywhere to go. Treat everyone with respect. Household chores were assigned on a rotating basis, but everyone was expected to keep their own room tidy. Dinner time was family time, and everyone was expected to be there. There were no locks in the doors, and he was not to bar the door to keep people out, but the expectation was that everyone would knock before entering; they weren't looking to take away his privacy, but they considered locked doors a safety issue. The doors and windows were on an alarm system; don't try to sneak out. He was expected to keep his hearing aids in and on except when showering and sleeping. He was expected to get himself up and ready for school in the morning (once school started, but he might end up in summer school, they would see tomorrow what the tests showed). 

The list seemed to go on and on, some of the rules general and others specific to him. He waited for them to wind down, and finally they did. "Do you have any questions?"

"No," Clint said. "Can I go upstairs? It's been a long day."

"Just sign this and—"

"I have to _sign_ it?" Clint asked. "Like some kinda _contract_?"

"Exactly," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We have all of our boys do it. We want to be sure that you understand the rules of the house and what you've agreed to." 

"You had a toddler sign this sh—" Clint stopped himself. No profanity was on the list, too. 

"When he was old enough to understand, yes."

"Right." Clint signed, because what did it matter? Maybe they thought it was binding; he knew his name on a piece of paper didn't mean anything. It didn't cost him anything to sign.

"Can I go upstairs?" he asked again, once they'd taken the paper back.

"Of course. Go ahead."

He got up and went to his room, shut the door... left the chair at the desk for now... and looked around. This was home now, apparently, at least until he got a better offer. Which, with any luck, wouldn't take long.

So he did what he was told – went shopping, took the stupid tests for school, let them spoil him a little (or maybe this was normal parent stuff – he didn't have much experience with normal parenting) by getting him a cell phone, and when Mr. Sullivan gave him an older laptop that he had recently replaced, he just smiled and said thank you and where was the wireless password?

It was okay for a day or two, but the boys constant noise and bickering and Mrs. Sullivan always looking over his shoulder like she thought he was up to something started to grate on his nerves, and by the end of the week he was ready to bolt. But no amount of searching had turned up anything, and the emails he sent to head the head of the circus went unanswered. So where would he go? He couldn't just strike off in a random direction and hope it got him where he wanted to be. It would be insane. He had no money and he had no car. 

And then he accidentally left his hearing aids in when he got in the shower, and they had to go in for repair – nothing too major, or the Sullivans probably would have kicked him out for having to cough up that kind of cash for a kid they'd only had a few days, or maybe they weren't the ones paying for it, but whatever it cost, it took a couple of days.

It was quiet. He could hear some things, sometimes, but mostly nothing. It was eerie, and disorienting, and what would he do if something happened when he was out there and the damn things broke? He certainly couldn't afford to fix them on top of everything else.

So it was fear, as much as anything, _more_ than anything, that kept him there. He would need a better plan than just to up and leave, and that would take time. So for now, he was just going to have to make the best of it.

**Author's Note:**

> For [Shazrolane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane/pseuds/Shazrolane), who asked to see Clint's first days with the Sullivans.


End file.
